In a Pinch
by La Javert
Summary: Javert's habit of using snuff when he was pleased with himself has spiralled out of control, and has started having negative consequnces on the job. Can he kick the habit, or will his addiction lay his job and whole way of life on the line? c. 1997
1. Chapter 1

It was a clear night. The sky was a thick black velvet drape, dusted over with diamond shards. The air was cool and still, and not a sound was to be heard . . .

. . . Except if one listened closely, and happened to be in the right part of Paris, at just the right moment.

There was the distant yowl of a cat, and then, moving through the tight and jagged alleys and streets, two shadows conversed in a hush.

"Inspector! We'll lose sight of him if you allow that."

"Don't be a fool, Sergeant. There are twelve men posted. We could let him run circles for months, and we would still have him."

"But the risk, Inspector! We should move in quickly and nab him, just in case."

"Just in case _what_, Sergeant?"

"Why, in case he escapes, of course!"

"And he's not going to." The inspector tossed his head with a haughty air of assurance. "Besides, I'm your superior . . . So shut up."

They came out into an open street and skirted the halo of a street lamp. In the vague light a parting glimpse of them could be seen. The inspector was tall and gruff and serious, wrapped in a grey frock coat, and the sergeant was a ferret of a man, uneasy and small, with his chin and hands tucked into his coat, making him appear even smaller. The inspector's stride was long and steady and confident, like the workings of a machine, and the sergeant's steps were everywhere and uneven as he moved furtively in the inspector's wake.

The inspector pulled the sergeant back into a crook in the wall very suddenly. He pointed with a finger that was silhouetted against the moonlight. Past the tip of that finger was their quarry.

It was Montparnasse. The slick young fop, frightening for his fearlessness, terrifying for his mellow manner, was now looking a little less than fashionably blasé. His face--what they could make of it by the pale moon--bore a look of panic.

"What did I tell you! We've got him. No worries," the inspector hissed, grinning his wolf's grin.

He leaned against the wall with a relaxed sigh of victory. Shoving a hand into his pocket, he pulled out a little silver box.

The sergeant, who had been anxiously watching Montparnasse, turned to the inspector and whispered in a panicky pitch, "What are you _doing_? Javert! Let's _get_ him!"

"Do shut your mouth, little fellow--er, Sergeant." Javert sighed. "My inferior, your whining annoys me, rather."

He opened the little box and caught some snuff between his fingers.

The sergeant poked his head out and looked to the end of the street. Had the light been better, Javert would have seen him turn a ghastly shade of pale. The man they had posted at the end of the street was absent, probably inspecting some movement in the adjoining street. Montparnasse had a clear way out.

It seemed Montparnasse now saw this as well, though he gave no indication of knowing of their own presence. With a gutsy look he began to strut, with all his former brashness restored, to the open end of the street. He was moving at a daringly relaxed pace, and if the two of them could sneak up on him and ambush him, he would not get away. But they had to act quickly, and to act silently.

The sergeant was about to turn to the inspector to tell him the news, but all was suddenly lost, with an earsplitting . . .

SNORT!

Montparnasse shied like a horse, leaping away from the sound. He turned and looked to its source, and saw the sergeant's mortified expression and the glitter of Javert's snuffbox. He turned and ran off into the night.

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Javert stood before the prefect, hat in hand, his eyes to the floor. His face was rather red.

The prefect was not happy.

Javert was not happy.

The sergeant looked quite happy. He sat in a chair off to the side of the room, grinning at Javert and nodding, as if to say "I told you so" with each bob of his self-satisfied head.

The prefect was speaking. "Javert . . . You have been here with us in Paris for quite some time, and we have all marvelled at your success, and we all look up to you for your unfailing devotion to your duties. You are a shining example of what stands above every man on the force. This must take a great degree of self-control?"

Javert nodded almost imperceptibly, his eyes still cast down.

"A great degree of self-denial, no?"

He nodded again. "Yes."

The prefect sighed, and ground his teeth. "Then why on earth do you let your silly little habit interfere while you're on the job? It's so bloody _childish_, Javert! Surely a man as in control as yourself can resist taking a snuff break while he's on a manhunt! And this isn't the first time your indulgent dawdling has cost you your man!"

Javert thought back to his botched attempt to arrest Valjean nine years prior. His face flushed to an even deeper red. He had taken his merry time, grinning the while and working at an excruciatingly slow pace, thorough to the point of ridiculousness--and feeling very, very pleased with himself. Until he had lifted his paw and found no trace of the mouse beneath.

History had repeated itself. And these weren't the only two incidents, either.

The prefect had been rambling on, and Javert listened again.

" . . . I don't _believe_ you! I do mean it when I refer to you as a shining example, believe me, I do. But this is the second time this _month_ your little snuff fetish has resulted in a criminal's escape. Couldn't you have simply waited to be pleased with yourself until _after_ you'd got your man? One would have expected one as clever as yourself to think that up before.

"Javert, it's time I took harsher measures with you. Do you know what I'm going to do?"

The colour drained suddenly out of Javert's face. His lips took on a bluish tinge. "D-d- dismiss me!" His voice trembled, and he felt suddenly light-headed. What a nightmare!

"No! No, Javert, you're too valuable. But I'm going to give you a task, and then I'm going to give you a warning."

Javert relaxed slightly, but only slightly. "Task? Warning?"

"Yes." The prefect shoved the papers he had been sorting into a disorderly mess on his desk. He stood up. "You are going to quit taking snuff. I am going to assign the good sergeant here to keep surveillance on you, in order to be certain that you make every effort to break your habit, and that you succeed."

There was a long pause. The sergeant was glowing with ego and a sadistic delight.

Javert raised his eyebrows. "And the warning, Monsieur le prefet?"

The prefect cleared his throat, and stared straight into Javert's widened green eyes. "If you do not successfully kick this habit, a certain sergeant will become an inspector, and a certain inspector shall become a sergeant. Do I make myself clear?"

Javert blanched again. His eyes shot over to the sergeant.

One can easily imagine the looks on each of their faces.


	2. Chapter 2

PART TWO

The sergeant led, his face glowing, his steps like clockwork. Javert strode behind him, his face scrunched up in a wolf's snarl, his hands in his pockets, his chin down, his feet dragging. He was muttering several unforgivable words. His fingers nervously fumbled with his snuff box, heightening his distress by brushing against temptation.

If things weren't hard enough, the sky then decided to split open like a great blue water balloon, spilling it contents over Paris. Javert reached up with his unoccupied hand and pulled his hat brim ridiculously low over his face. The sergeant let the rain plaster him; the rain didn't seem to bother him--he looked ready to sing in it.

They turned a corner and soon came to the building that contained Javert's flat.

Javert looked up to his home, then at the sergeant, and ran his hand down his face, letting out a serrated sigh of misery. "Home sweet home. Fah!"

The sergeant turned to him. "You had better give me your keys."

"My keys? Why on earth do you want my KEYS?"

"I can't very well have you running off in the night to get your fix."

Javert threw his hands in the air, but did not bring them down. He tensed his fingers and towered over the sergeant like a rabid bear. "_You're locking me in???!!_"

The sergeant was not in the least perturbed. "Well, of course! How else am I to keep you from running out and purchasing any nasty tobacco products?" He held out his hand. "And while we're on the subject, hand over the box, _Inspector_."

Javert let out a low moan. His lower lip trembled in a sincere pout, and with shaking hands he finally succeeded in lifting the box from his coat pocket. Letting it go, however, proved a little more difficult.

The sergeant pulled at Javert's long, strong fingers, and one by one he loosened them and managed to pull away the little box. Javert let out a sharp cry when it came away.

"Good _God_, Javert! This is absolutely the single most pathetic sight I have ever, ever beheld! You _have_ got a real problem, you know that?"

Javert mumbled half-heartedly and by instinct, "That's `Inspector' to you, Sergeant."

The Sergeant laughed. "At this rate, it won't be for long, _Inspector_." He smiled and, making a rather large show of it, opened the box and tipped it upside-down, spilling all of the contents into a murky puddle. They were soon swept away with the rain into the gutter. Javert's eyes were glassy.

"Now, hand over the keys."

He obeyed, this time with less resistance.

"Good!" The sergeant turned towards the door of the building. There was an obvious spring in his step, as though he had just climbed from cloud nine to cloud ten.

Javert felt a wave of nausea wash over him.

He blamed it on everything.

_To be continued . . ._


End file.
